


Pretty Pansy

by Freya_Ishtar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Courtship, Drama, F/M, Forced Marriage, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Matchmaking, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyamory, Romance, Smut, dark themes, voldemort wins au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29100537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freya_Ishtar/pseuds/Freya_Ishtar
Summary: She always expected she'd be courted by a Death Eater, only not by quite so many as upon the Dark Lord's casting of a charm that selects the most ideal to protect such a 'bright, lovely, and fragile thing' as she. Pansy Parkinson knows she's pretty, and that a bold future lies ahead, but she'll be damned if she lets her suitors think for an instant that she's fragile.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Lucius Malfoy, Millicent Bulstrode/Draco Malfoy, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Pansy Parkinson/Antonin Dolohov, Pansy Parkinson/Elias Avery (original DE character), Pansy Parkinson/Thorfinn Rowle
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	Pretty Pansy

**Author's Note:**

> I know I wasn't supposed to begin any of my Pansy-centric fics until I wrapped my open Hermione-centric fics, but this one just kept gnawing at me. The usual update/chapter length warnings apply.  
> \----------------------------------------------------------------------------  
> CONTENT WARNING: This will be a li'l darker than my usual fics as this is the life of a 'pure-blood princess' following Voldemort winning the Second Wizarding War, when what we're accustomed to is the view from the other side. So, while the overall story might not be super-dark, there may be moments/concepts that are "Oh! Well, now . . . ." I can't give anything more specific than this at the moment, so just proceed with caution.  
> \----------------------------------------------------------------------------  
> REGARDING THE BALLET-RELATED CONTENT: Ballet as an artform became popularized in Western Europe (notably the courts of Italy, then spreading to France, and gaining further popularity from there) during the Renaissance in the 15 & 16th centuries, whilst the Statute of Secrecy dividing the Muggle and Wizarding worlds came into effect in the late 17th century (1692, same year as the Salem Witch Trials) so ballet could easily be an artform known to, and practiced by, highborn pure-blood girls like Pansy. For anyone familiar with the artform, I apologize if any of my language or imagery is, well, bumpy. I have no personal experience with it (my extracurriculars were martial arts and cheerleading), so I did research and watched movement tutorial clips on YouTube to try and get a feel for the content, because this fic demanded a ballet-related scene at the story's opening.  
> \------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
> I'll not give a fancast on this one (I may, in fact, go through my posted fics soon & remove the fancasts lists, [save for OCs, because a fancast for an original character is the simplest way to give that character equal footing with the canon characters in the readers' mind] because no matter how many times I say readers are open to imagine whomever they prefer & don't have to take my list into account at all, I receive comments disparaging my picks, or outright telling me I'm wrong) with the exception of my latest OC, Mr. Elias Avery, for whom I imagine Ian Bohen (or, as Teen Wolf fans know him, Peter Hale).  
> \------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, or any affiliated characters, and make no profit-in any form-from this work.

**Chapter One**

Perfection

_Arabesque_ . . . .

It was a good word. A lovely word, actually. And, whether she intended it to mean the ballet maneuver of balancing on one leg whilst extending the other behind her in a picture of perfect yet strained balance which only appeared effortless to the observer, or to mean the artistic pattern of fanciful lines, scrolling and interlacing, Pansy Parkinson was aware in a most awkward and humbling fashion that this good, lovely word could very well be a metaphor for her life.

And if there were anything Pansy Parkinson hated . . . .

Lowering her leg, she moved into fourth position, holding a moment before flowing into a pirouette.

The sharp clack of Madame Tourline's cane connecting with the floor cut into her thoughts. "No good. Again!"

. . . It was feeling humbled.

Pansy relaxed to first position, collected herself, breathed a few times, and tried again. She had the actual movements down, the fluidity, the seamless form . . . it was that the old bat demanded she hold the pose so insufferably long before going into the turn that created the issue.

She understood the point. A test of her endurance and balance after being out of practice. But still . . . couldn't they have started from the ground up with retraining? This elder witch was a monster of the truest sense.

Closing her eyes, the young woman willed herself to ignore her instructor. If she could complete the maneuver to Madame Tourline's liking just once, the woman would dismiss her for today. But it had been years since her last formal lesson—her schooling at Hogwarts and all the chaos there leading to some unfortunate sidetracking, and now that she was soon to be finished with classes, Mother had thought it a _splendid_ time to renew her skills.

She moved again and held . . . . Pansy ignored the screaming of her muscles, the aching stiffness in her neck and shoulders from the tension. She focused only on the air in her lungs and the perfection of her pose as she waited.

And waited.

Finally, Madame Tourline snapped her fingers, the light sound of her soft, wrinkled fingertips striking almost lost in the quiet of the room. Pansy returned her foot to the floor and swept forward, once again flowing into the movement. One turn. Two.

She unfolded, delicate yet strong, to place her leg behind her, foot upon the floor.

"Perfect," the word came just as Pansy stilled.

Yet, it had not been spoken by Madame Tourline.

Both witches looked toward the voice, like stones scraping against each other it had been. Madame Tourline immediately bowed her head, but Pansy was too struck by the spectacle of her parents flanking the Dark Lord—never mind the Dark Lord simply wandering into their ballroom as though he'd been there a million times before.

She'd heard about such . . . spontaneous house calls, but she wasn't certain she'd actually believed the new leader of Wizarding Britain would bother visiting the homes of Sacred Twenty-Eight families with how very many demands upon his time there must be right now, yet there he stood. Her parents might not be Death Eaters by any sort of _official_ designation, but she never had reason to doubt their unwavering loyalty to the cause.

It turned her stomach a little that they stood in deference to a half-blood, but he'd promised them a peaceful, pure-blood run society. And he'd delivered—in part, anyway. Pure-bloods had run of the country, sure, but the peace he assured them would come along in its wake was still nowhere to be found.

Now, the purpose of these house calls? She could only guess, as it seemed _that_ was being kept hush-hush. What was suspicious was that these calls had only been paid to the households with daughters, and that the event included some heavy discussion over a feast, which the visited family was to host, and _all_ his Marked Death Eaters were invited. She didn't need Millicent, or even that Hufflepuff, Hannah Abbott, who was hardly a friend, to tell her more. And those dreadful Carrow twins . . . weren't they just lucky they weren't quite old enough to worry about this sort of thing yet?

Pansy had a sinking feeling her life was about to become more strained and interlaced than it was before. _Goodbye precious few freedoms_ , she thought with a mirthless inward laugh as she plastered on a polite smile while Madame Tourline finally eased herself up from that bow that had looked positively excruciating for one with such aged bones.

"My Lord," the young lady said in a light tone that did not give a hint of the physical exertion she'd just endured. She offered a graceful courtesy, secretly relishing that the old bag was bristling on the inside about the movement not being deep enough, or not having enough of a flourish as she straightened, but would not dare speak any disparagements in the Dark Lord's presence, as _she_ was not a Sacred Twenty-Eight witch. "To what do we owe this honor?"

Behind him, her parents beamed at her courteousness—it was hardly as though she was a young woman known for her gentility, after all. "Young Miss Parkinson," he began, that stone-scraping voice shockingly, perhaps unbelievably, gentle, "you are the very picture of what a pure-blood witch should aspire to! Do you know that?"

Pansy bit the inside of her lip to keep from scoffing openly at _the_ Lord Voldemort. Did she know that? Of bloody course she knew that. She had been raised to _be_ that.

Yet, she knew there was only one way she could answer. And that way was a very un-Pansy-like lowering of her lashes as she spoke in that same light tone, "Thank you, My Lord." Demure wasn't _precisely_ in her wheelhouse, but lying through her teeth certainly was—and what was acting, what was subterfuge, if _not_ lying?

"Your parents have been kind enough to offer a dinner party for myself and my Death Eaters tonight. You will be in attendance, of course?" He said it as though it were a question, but everyone in the room knew that it, _distinctly_ , was not.

There was also the small matter of this same elder wizard who was currently being so complimentary as well as genteel, himself, crushing those who disappointed him with an iron fist. And not in a literal sense by any means. No, the Dark Lord's punishments consisted of whatever he knew would cause the most harm to the recipient's _soul_. Like what he'd done to Lucius Malfoy and that insufferable Mudblood.

But now was not the time to think on such things.

Pansy kept her smile in place as she nodded. "Of course."

"Well, I believe we ladies had better start preparing for the evening. We must get changed, and of course see to the elves that the evening is _perfect_." Mother sidled herself in close at Pansy's side, resting an arm around her daughter's shoulders. "If we may take our leave, My Lord?"

"Indeed." Voldemort did adore this family—it was so pleasant when all parties knew their place in his presence. Oh, he could sense the girl bristling at the performance she was forced to put on, but it was that she committed to that performance, that she would never dare step out of her role in front of him, that charmed him about her. No true pure-blood, after all, should suffer being treated as a subordinate, yet it was just as assuredly the mark of a pure-blood to recognize one's place in a precarious social hierarchy. "Your husband and I have some . . . things to discuss ahead of the gathering, anyway, Calla."

Pansy abruptly but politely thanked Madame Tourline for the lesson and then allowed her mother to guide her toward the ballroom doors. Dark Lord Voldemort was calling her parents by their first names? She rather pictured him to bark at everyone by their surnames.

Oh dear. This gathering really _was_ a heavy matter. And she knew—she'd have to be stupid not to—that it was about her.

* * *

"Honestly, Mother," she said with an eye roll built up over the course of the earlier discussion—during which Father might've slapped her eyes from her head had she made any such gesture in front of the Dark Lord. "I can dress myself."

Calla Parkinson had immediately called for Birdy to draw a scented bath and scrub Pansy's hair as the girl soaked. But now that Pansy was all pleasant-smelling and her drying locks sleek and gleaming from the elf's efforts, Mother hadn't left the room. No, instead the elder witch was bustling about from one wardrobe to the other and back as she carried on an animated conversation—with herself—over these dress robes or those. The black satin with silver bead detail was classic, of course, but the deep green robes brought out her daughter's lovely hazel eyes and complimented her light-olive skin, and wasn't green just fitting for their guest of honor? Oh, but perhaps a softer, mellower green. Jade or seafoam, maybe . . . .

"Oh, I know my darling, but one can never look _too_ perfect."

Pansy exchanged an impatient look with Birdy. Well, Pansy's half of that shared glance was impatient, Birdy's was anxious and terrified. The lady of the house was always a little shorter of temper than usual when they were entertaining. In the mind of her lady, perfection was achievable, and maintaining that perfection a matter of life or death.

"Perhaps Birdy could see to Miss Pansy's refinements?" the elf finally squeaked up, terrified to speak out of turn, but feeling she might collapse under the wait of her anxiety were she not given _something_ to do soon.

Calla waved dismissively over her shoulder, tapping a finger to her chin with her other hand. "Yes, good. You do that, Birdy. Ooh! Maybe a red."

Pansy held in a groan as she obediently seated herself at her vanity table to let Birdy begin her work. "No red." She already knew she'd be the center of attention—which she normally loved, but this was _different_ —the last thing she needed was to be enveloped in a color meant to draw the eye.

Mother bustled over as Birdy set out all manner of jewelry. Holding a fabric beside her daughter's cheek, Calla nodded. "Seafoam. Birdy, choose accordingly."

The elf nodded and scrambled to match piece after piece—necklace, earrings, bracelets, the odd ring—against the delicate shade.

Pansy puffed out her cheeks as she exhaled, meeting the gaze of her reflection in the mirror as Mother and Birdy went to work making her 'perfect.'

* * *

Eight courses. Mother had pulled together an eight-course meal for a dinner party within a matter of hours. Pansy supposed it could be worse—some formal dinners consisted of as many as twenty-one courses—but this was still quite a bit to process in so short a time.

And, certainly, it wasn't as though Mother had _personally_ done anything, the servants did that, but Mother oversaw everything, gave every order, selected every course's offerings, puttered around behind Alber as he set the grand dining table. That _had_ to be a lot of work!

The lighting was perfect—fresh candles in all the chandeliers. The gentle, tinkling music as it floated ever so softly in the backdrop? Perfect. The freshly gathered flowers stuffed into every vase, perfect. It was a little overwhelming, actually.

Even the Death Eaters were all _perfectly_ ordered and behaved. Not that she should expect anything less from them in a formal setting amongst their fellow pure-bloods, but it was still a strange realization to watch them as they dined on hor d'oeuvres and made polite conversation that they had such a range. When the circumstances called for it, they could be cold bloodied killers and torturers _or_ refined gentlemen.

The contrast was sharp and a bit frightening.

Draco had wandered over at some point between the warm spiced olives and the caviar tartlets—they'd all be _invited_ to take their seats in the dining room when the entrees were due to be served, so for now, they were all locked in what she thought of as the 'standing about like idiots mingling' stage of the evening. Oh, she could certainly fake it with the best of them—giggling, making chit-chat, appearing as though she was having the time of her life—but in truth, these parties bored her to tears, and Draco's company was a strained comfort. Even as her ex-boyfriend, he was the closest thing she had in the world to a friend in this situation.

For a long moment, he said nothing, simply stood beside her nursing a glass of wine. She understood how awkward he must feel at events like this, given that his father . . . and his father's _new wife_ had been pressured to attend, as well.

She eyed the witch in question for a few seconds. They'd never been anywhere close to friends—the exact opposite, in fact—but one couldn't help but feel pity for her and her husband. Everyone had seemed to believe it justice that Lucius Malfoy had been forced into this, as it was his late wife's meddling that nearly cost the Dark Lord the war, and his own bungling that had lost the Dark Lord his precious prophecy. And justice for the Mudblood, as all of Wizarding Britain knew the only reason Potter had come so far, the only reason he'd stood half a chance, was because of _her_.

Both were so proud of their blood, their lineage—that one _reveled_ in her dirty blood—and so, indeed, the perfect punishment for each of them had not been to kill them, but to force them to co-exist in the maliciously-humored guise of wedded bliss. As Pansy heard it, they were each magically locked from trying to kill themselves or each other, and Hermione was charmed from being able to speak out of turn at such gatherings, and of course her wand had been stripped from her and broken in the same moment that Narcissa's life had been taken.

Hermione _Malfoy_ simply sat in a corner of the room, refusing to look at anyone, like an angry little doll. No wand, no words, no power.

Pansy had offered what condolences she could at Narcissa's funeral, but she couldn't really understand what Draco was going through, though she didn't think _anyone_ could. Her parents might occasionally be terrible, but they were always there for her.

"No one will tell me what this is all about, you know," she said softly, taking a sip from her own wine glass as the let her gaze rove the room, curious about where the other half of the unhappy couple was.

She spotted Lucius on the other side of the room, where he had been graciously accepted into a conversation with Antonin Dolohov and Thorfinn Rowle. Pansy tipped her head thoughtfully as she watched them. Dolohov had let his dark hair grow out a bit, so that it brushed his shoulders, making him look more youthful. By contrast, Rowle had chopped off his golden locks, granting him a matured appearance. Not bad looking fellows by any stretch of the imagination, she observed with a pensive frown.

"We aren't allowed," Draco answered, his gaze on the dwindling liquid in his own glass. She thought it must be easier for him to ignore what was in front of him—that, in a way, it was a punishment to him, to be forced to attend these gatherings with Lucius and Hermione, because of his own misguided actions toward the final battle's end. "If we were, I'd have told you already."

Pansy laughed softly. That might or might not be the truth. Were he in better spirits, Draco might have withheld telling her simply for the fun of it.

Her gaze continued to travel, finding Mother and Father in discussion with the Dark Lord and a brown-haired man she didn't recognize on sight. Pity. His eyes were such a pale, startling blue she noticed them even from here.

"Who's that?" she asked, jutting her chin in the mystery man's direction.

"Hmm?" Draco followed her indication, grateful the target of their attention stood nowhere near his father or . . . step-mother. "Yes, he's . . . new."

"A new Death Eater? I didn't think the Dark Lord was granting any new Marks yet."

He shrugged, downing the last of his wine in one gulp. "Elias Avery. His father Edwin was one of the Dark Lord's first followers, but he was lost in the War. So, Elias took the Mark in his father's stead shortly after Edwin's funeral."

"Can't even give me a tiny hint what this is all about?" she wheedled, though she was rather sure she already knew.

Draco shook his head. He was lucky the Dark Lord had let him off as easily as he had, but if Draco 'spoiled the surprise,' an _actual_ punishment designed solely for him might await. "No. The Dark Lord will make an announcement when we're all seated at the table."

As if fate were smiling upon her—at the very least in matters of not making her wallow in anticipation any longer—the bells chimed, signaling everyone to move to the dining room. An interesting thing happened then, but Pansy was certain she was the only one who noticed it, because she was the only one paying attention to them.

While the others drifted toward the doors and filed out, Lucius made his way toward his angry little doll of a new wife. For several moments he merely looked at her while she refused to pry her eyes from the floor. After a weighted sigh that caused his shoulders to droop, he held out his hand.

Hermione turned her head, her attention touching on his outstretched fingers. She didn't budge yet, only lifting her gaze to his and then dropping it to his hand once more.

With visible reluctance, she placed her hand in his and let him tug her gently to her feet. As they neared the door, however, they dropped their hands back to their own sides, as though that little olive-branch gesture hadn't happened.

Interesting. Perhaps after four months stuck together, they were finally at the 'making the best of things' stage of their forced marriage.

"Pansy!"

The young woman gave a start. Mother stood just outside the door, peering in at her quizzically. She was the only one who hadn't heeded the chimes and started for the dining room.

"What're you doing lagging behind here?"

"Oh, right." Clearing her throat, Pansy nodded and elegantly flitted after her mother. "Sorry."

* * *

It wasn't as the entrees were served. It wasn't even in the middle of the course. No, no. The Dark Lord did not stand up, assuming a posture as though he expected worship—and Pansy knew he did, and that no one in this room, save the newest Malfoy, would refuse him if he insisted upon it—until the plates were cleared away.

"The esteemed Parkinson family, I must thank you for welcoming my Death Eaters and myself into your home and showing us such hospitality." That stone-grinding voice was as close to saccharin as it could possibly get. "And now we are unto the matter for which such a gathering was deemed . . . fitting. Miss Parkinson, stand, if you would?"

Voldemort swept from his place at the head of the table to the center of the room and held a hand out to her.

Pansy's gaze darted about the table fast, relieved she could control her reactions enough that a blush did not rise in her cheeks at having everyone's attention on her suddenly. She did find it quietly amusing that the Dark Lord asked as though she had a choice. _No, Dark Lord, I don't think I will, thanks._ That would go over well.

Offering a gracious smile, she stood from her seat. Pansy was not anxious by nature, but this entire scenario was enough to rattle anyone's nerves.

Moving to stand beside him, she tried to hold herself as still as possible. Her posture was perfect, her seafoam dress robes falling around her form in flattering lines, long hair pinned back from her face so that the length fell around her shoulders in delicate waves. She knew what she looked like and was aware of her parents scrutinizing her.

"Pansy Iolanthe Parkinson," he began and Pansy fought hard not to bristle visibly—she hated her middle name. "Daughter and only child of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Parkinson. In the wake of the Second Wizarding War, it has become evident that we must do more to protect and . . . cultivate treasured and valuable creatures such as yourself. We must strive to keep the wizarding blood pure, and safeguard those capable of continuing the bloodlines."

So, this _was_ precisely what she'd thought it was. Dark Lord Voldemort was taking personal charge of seeing Sacred Twenty-Eight daughters matched up, since the sons were in line to become Death Eaters, themselves. There had only been two Marked female Death Eaters, Bellatrix Lestrange and Alecto Carrow, and both of them had been lost in the war. She imagined he was in no hurry to lose more Sacred Twenty-Eight daughters to the rigors of his service, as they were so limited in supply. She also imagined, as there weren't many of them, that soon this effort would move on to any pure-blood families with no ties to blood-traitors. Marrying into Most Ancient and Noble Houses was also a way to elevate the status of any of his Death Eaters not born of a Sacred Twenty-Eight line.

"Like her namesake flower, young Miss Parkinson is bright, lovely to behold, and a fragile thing in need of protecting as she greets a promising future."

She bit the inside of her lip to keep from reacting. Her gaze, for some reason shot to Hermione's in that moment. Pansy felt a grudging hint of respect as the look on the other witch's face clearly said that if the Dark Lord thought _her_ fragile, then he clearly didn't know the girl.

Pansy lowered her eyes before anyone could catch that shared glance.

"With her parents' permission, I shall cast a charm which will pinpoint the wizard, or wizards, most ideally suited to court our fair young witch."

It was all a formality; she held no illusions about that. She knew they'd already agreed to this. Knew the charm would automatically exclude those married or spoken for—those gentlemen were present only to bear witness, more formality than purpose. She supposed it would be interesting to be able to suss out who was courting Millie.

Her parents stood up from their places at the table. Each graciously bowed their head. "You, of course, have our permission, My Lord." Pansy wondered if it was eerie that they'd answered in unison. Had they actually rehearsed this?

The Dark Lord nodded in return, all part of the show, and gave a flick of the Elder Wand. Pansy found herself hoping that the light which drifted forth in a gently floating orb would land on Draco. Oh, she didn't actually _want_ to marry Draco, but at least she knew what she was getting with him, and they had a sort-of friendship to act as a foundation.

The delicate sphere ghosted across the table, hovering over each _available_ head, as though evaluating the wizard. She noticed the orbs did not hover over Draco. Dammit. He was already taken. She didn't have time to wonder if it was by Millie or Hannah before the orb, to the young witch's astonishment—though perhaps that wasn't quite the proper word for the emotion—split into three.

She tried not to be aware of the Dark Lord's naked brows shooting upward in surprise. He had mentioned wizards, _plural_ , but now she understood he hadn't actually expected this outcome. Voldemort being shocked by something did not feel remotely like a good thing.

The orbs settled before wizards she was relatively certain she hadn't paid very much attention to until just earlier this evening.

Thorfinn Rowle. Antonin Dolohov. Elias Avery.

Rowle looked quietly amused at his own luck—though she imagined it was more of a disappointment in having to share his intended's attentions. Dolohov unwittingly mirrored the Dark Lord's expression as he merely stared at the orb before him with raised brows, as though expecting this to be revealed as a prank. Avery . . . his reaction was possibly the most pure, because it was open, easily readable. A smirk curved his mouth and he shook his head before lifting his gaze from the orb to settle on the witch in the seafoam dress robes.

And then that smirk widened to a wicked grin.

"Gentlemen, consider yourselves quite fortunate," their leader said, a smile on his barely-there lips. "She has been deemed a prize worth having, indeed, if the magic has selected three among my Death Eaters. Stand."

All three did as commanded. Pansy barely had time to give them further consideration—their statures, their postures, the state of their own dress robes, _anything_ —before the Dark Lord concluded, "Miss Parkinson, you have your suitors."

Uncertain what to say, she looked to her parents; surely they'd have some objection to this. Some insistence that the charm be recast, that the Dark Lord choose one among them!

Yet, Calla and Vared Parkinson simply stood there appearing completely beside themselves with pride.


End file.
